


Screaming in Tune

by FallLover



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion - Freeform, Hand Jobs, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Isolation, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg - Freeform, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, M/M, Physical Abuse, Recovery, Starvation, Torture, Trauma, Zoltan Chivay & Jaskier | Dandelion - Freeform, based on the 2019 show, using some of the Jaskier was trained as a spy background, with stuff from the games and books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23642806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallLover/pseuds/FallLover
Summary: After leaving Geralt, Jaskier gets captured by Nilfgaard.Takes place after "Rare Species".
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 392





	1. The Dark Things That Wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title from ["Farewell Wanderlust"](https://theamazingdevil.bandcamp.com/track/farewell-wanderlust), and chapter title from ["King"](https://theamazingdevil.bandcamp.com/track/king-2), both by The Amazing Devil. Yeah I'm not really creative and a bit obsessed, so.
> 
> The sexual assault is not explicitly described, but there is a line of dialogue Jaskier has while it's happening, and later his assailants prepping for it is mentioned. If you'd like to skip the former, at the phrase "He told them about the songs", skip to the next paragraph.

He should have expected it, really. He’d been a nobody, not worth the trouble to rob, before he met Geralt. Sure, he’d been _someone_ back in Oxenfurt: a very excellent student, a brilliant professor, good at whatever he put his hands and mind to, but he _left_ for adventure. Then he was sort of someone, sometimes, but he either had Geralt or whatever new noble patron he could sleep with to hide behind, and an interconnected network of friends as they travelled more. Defending himself hadn’t been a great concern for some time, at least when he had someone like Geralt watching his back.

But after... after. After Geralt said… Jaskier just felt too tired. _Julian_ felt too tired. It had been nearly four months since he’d walked away from Geralt on that damn mountain and he hadn’t been paying attention, which is stupid for someone who’d been making a name for himself again, even if he wasn’t with his more noticeable Witcher. And even if he _had_ been paying attention, well... there were a lot of them. And maybe he wasn’t entirely sober.

They grabbed him from the room at the inn he’d been staying at and tied him up and carted him off. He had no idea where he was when they deposited him in some dungeon looking place, and a man with a serious look on his face and that disturbing religious fervor in his eyes said, “tell me where the Witcher and the child surprise are.”

The armor said Nilfgaardian, but other than that, Jaskier hadn’t been paying attention to any messages or news for some time. He had no idea who these people were.

So Jaskier blinked at him. His mouth still hurt from the removal of the gag. He was hungry and thirsty. But:

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Your Witcher. He found Princess Cirilla and he’s hidden her somewhere. Where are they?”

Jaskier frowned. “Isn’t she dead? I thought Cintra was burned?” That had stuck with him when people spoke of it, only because he remembered a conversation over a fire about how it couldn’t happen. When he’d been with…

He frowned. He couldn’t think of that.

“Cirilla survived. You’re not asking the questions here, bard. Where. Are they?”

“I don’t know! It’s been months since I’ve even seen Geralt and he certainly didn’t have some child with him, unless she was hiding in his saddlebags...?”

“Stop lying.”

“I’m not lying!”

They beat him for it anyway. Not enough to knock him out, but close. He lay sagging against the wall they’d hung him by the wrists from, breathing heavily. They’d stripped him naked at one point, and he’d screamed himself hoarse. Bled a fair bit. They’d threatened to cut his fingers off and he’d laughed and said, “You do that and I’ll eat my own tongue.” He worried about his eyes, though. But besides beating him, they didn’t seem intent on it. Perhaps letting him see what was coming was better for what they wanted?

And maybe he cried, too. It had been a while since he’d had his lessons on dealing with being captured. He wanted to laugh at how soft he’d somehow gotten. He hoped it was just the alcohol. Valdo would have laughed at him and Jaskier would have approved.

In the end, they got nothing from him. Not for lack of Jaskier talking. He called them every insult under the sun – he was well-traveled, he knew a lot – and they beat him more, and he spit up blood and saliva and kept insulting them. He even gave them what sounded sort of like what they wanted, because that was the key to it – a half-truth is safer than a complete lie. And even if he wanted to tell the whole truth, he truly had nothing to tell them. He’d stayed with Geralt in random towns and villages and forests. But nothing stood out. There was no particular safe haven Jaskier could think of, particularly with the Nilfgaard invasion.

At times Jaskier didn’t even bother trying to hide it. The half-truths were exhausting, and his escape attempts all failed. He just didn’t know what they wanted.

And he hated himself for that. Perhaps a better friend would have been trusted with more. Sure, Geralt ended up being a terrible friend, in the end, but what of Jaskier? What had he offered?

He told them about a hole in a hedge wall he’d made in Oxenfurt when they broke his arm.

He talked about the time he’d accidentally damaged Roach’s reins, and then how Geralt had a strange look on his face when Jaskier had replaced the reins in the next city they’d visited. But Geralt never said thank you. They were flogging his feet and he thought he could remember the exact conversation he’d had with the leatherworker: a kind woman who loved sunflowers and songs about the sea.

He told them about a peach tree by some old lover’s house, which had grown the best peaches he’d ever eaten. They’d dribbled water into his mouth – he couldn’t tell them what they wanted to know if he lost his voice – and he’d choked on it before the peaches came to mind.

He told them how, really, he was very “sorry, Geralt, truly.” They slapped him as he was falling asleep.

He told them about the songs he’d sung in different cities for half drunk or too drunk lordlings. “Even drunk out of his mind, the Baron something or other has better stamina than you stupid fucks, what, you call that _trying_?”

He told them how he missed some of his students. Sometimes. When he forgot how much lesson plans were a pain to craft and how sometimes even he grew tired of the constant partying, at least midweek during the _day_ when he was trying to do other work. Admittedly it was a better thought to focus on through broken ribs.

He recited half-finished songs at them when he could barely see out of one eye and he was sprawled on the floor in a pool of his own blood. He could hear their questions in his sleep, sometimes, feel their fingers on him, their questing hands, their various humiliations. The goading made them work harder, which was only good because at some point he’d black out from the pain and they weren’t always successful at waking him up when they wanted.

Geralt had wanted him quiet. These people wanted him to talk. So he did. That neither party heard what they wanted seemed justifiable in Jaskier’s mind.

He had no idea how much time passed before they threw him into his cell – a tiny room with one very small, grated window he couldn’t reach, smooth stone walls, and a stone floor. He crawled to an old mat in a corner and sagged down. He thought of trying to escape again, but he had no idea where he was, and no contacts. They’d all grown tired of him during his months of moroseness.

It was some time later – he lost track of too much time and tried not to think about _that_ , which only made things worse – that one of them, one of the many guards who didn’t like him and clearly hated having to give him food, said, “He’s not coming for you” and Jaskier wanted to laugh.

Why _would_ Geralt come for him?

Geralt hated him.

“He won’t come. I always get him into horrible situations. Not this time.”

* * *

The daily meal of moldy and rotten food did work of its own. He retched and lost weight and cried when he used the hole in the floor to relieve himself because of the cramps and stomachaches. He paced the small room and sang to himself to stop himself from going completely mad.

At one point a guard had either thought to question him or get himself off or both, and of course forgotten in his haste to tie Jaskier down, so Jaskier had stabbed the man with his own dagger and made it a dozen paces from his cell door before a group of patrolling guards caught him and dragged him back. The guards never spoke with him after that. Some still visited on rare occasion. They brought rope, though.

He had imagined conversations with Geralt – who Jaskier was varying degrees of angry at, or begging him for rescue. He had conversations with Yennefer, talking about fashion and debating philosophy. With Zoltan, talking about food and horses and anything Zoltan would have hated to talk about. With every lover and teacher he’d ever had. With anyone he could recall. He got in arguments and made and laughed at jokes. It wiled away the hours between him trying to find nonexistent weaknesses in the door, the walls, and the floor. New songs were harder to come by. He had nothing to write them on and didn't really feel up to composing, which... hurt, if he thought about it. So he didn't think about it. He had plenty of old ones to rely on as the mood took him, anyway.

Sleep was both a blessing and a curse. It escaped him when he most needed it, ether due to stone floors, hunger, thirst, or nightmares, and left him more exhausted than rested. The nightmares were nonsense that left him with the feeling of dread and more anxiety and nowhere to take it to when he opened his eyes.

He tried to remember what sunshine felt like. The tiny window – or grate, possibly – let in barely any of it, and it never reached him. The place was almost perpetually dark and cold. Some days he forced himself through exercises. Most days he lay in place on the floor, too tired to move. He missed grass. Of all things, he missed _grass_. He swore when he got out he'd roll in the stuff and laugh at the stains.

The lost time ate away at him. He tried to keep track, but had no way of marking it down, and his memory was already playing enough tricks on him. He began remembering the days by when birds flew past the grate.

He cried in the dark and was glad that Geralt hated him, because he’d never see Jaskier _this_ pathetic.

Not that Geralt would be moved by it, either. Probably disgusted. Jaskier disgusted himself most days. It was how he pushed himself through exercises. Reciting old memory lessons. Strumming instruments that weren’t there. He wondered how long it took madness to take hold, and wondered if he’d already gone past that point.

No. They wouldn't destroy him like that. He refused. He'd gotten out of every other situation in his life. He'd get out of this one, too. He'd talk to his ghosts and he'd sing to himself and he'd do his push-ups in the dark and he'd think up new escape plans and he'd get out. That was all.

* * *

He was sitting in a corner, facing a wall, softly singing to himself and trying to remember a song he’d composed early on after he’d met Geralt. He couldn’t quite get his voice to hit all the right notes. It was late – the window was dark.

Then the door unlocked… and opened. The torchlight cast the whole room into a sort of red haze that made Jaskier blink. But he otherwise didn’t move. The guards always had swords ready whenever they had to do that, on the rare occasions they did. There was a small slat in the door they could open to throw his food in, which is what they usually did. Jaskier had rushed the door enough times to know it was futile. Better to let them think that he was beaten, so they could relax their guard. When they relaxed, he’d… well, he’d have his chance. It hadn’t worked yet, but one day… One day it had to.

Then he heard the guard walk towards him.

Jaskier tensed ever so slightly. It had been some time since a guard had come for him.

“…Jaskier?” the voice of a ghost said.

Jaskier paused and blinked. “…Geralt?”

“ _Jaskier_ …”

There was a light hand on his shoulder and Jaskier turned, blinking anew as he faced the torchlight and the ghost that was looking down at him with his expression in shadow.

But Jaskier could never miss those eyes, particularly in the dark.

“…Are you real?” Jaskier asked.

“Yes. Come on.” Geralt stepped back and when Jaskier didn’t follow, Geralt walked back and pulled the bard up to a standing position. Jaskier stumbled into the witcher, who _felt_ real. But maybe Jaskier was dreaming. Or hallucinating.

“Come. Quickly.”

Geralt half dragged Jaskier out of the cell before simply picking him up and bridal carrying him down the hall.

Jaskier stared at Geralt, or his ghost, or whoever this was. He could feel Geralt’s lungs working, his muscles moving. See his white hair up close. The slight sweat on his skin.

Geralt paused after several turns in the maze of corridors in wherever it was Jaskier had been kept and another ghost ahead of them said, “I got his stuff.”

Jaskier turned his head, feeling a bit dizzy, to see a familiar dwarf grinning up at him, holding a sack triumphantly. “And left em a few more surprises to keep em distracted.”

“Good,” Geralt said. “Let’s get back to Yennefer.”

“Zoltan…?” Jaskier asked, confused.

“Aye, lad,” Zoltan said, trotting behind them as Geralt took lead. “Good to see you.”

Yennefer was in a storeroom, wearing one of her overdetailed costumes. There were two guards at her feet. She looked Geralt, Zoltan, and Jaskier over and quickly summoned a portal, and they all leapt through – well, Geralt holding Jaskier leapt through, followed by the others.

Jaskier briefly felt awfully sick, and then he was lost in blissful nothingness.

* * *

Things were a bit foggy for a bit, but Jaskier remembered being told to eat something, although he knew he couldn’t, the guards always gave him foul food, and then…

“You won’t throw it up. If you do, we’ll deal with it.”

And he remembered being sick, and apologizing for it, but he wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to, or why.

The first time he clearly remembered being awake, sunlight woke him. He blinked and looked up, to find himself staring out a large, open window. Light fabric curtains fluttered in a gentle breeze. When he listened, he could hear birdsong.

He leaned back against comfortable pillows, most of him beneath a warm blanket, and looked out at a blue sky dotted with clouds. He realized he didn’t feel dirty or grimy for once in what felt like forever. He raised a hand and saw that his nails were neatly trimmed. His hands had taken a battering on the days when scrabbling at the door, the walls, and the floor became too desperate.

He looked around the room. It was neat and orderly, and smelled of pleasant-scented herbs. Sitting on a nearby chair—

He pushed himself up to try and get to the lute. He thought it destroyed. That he’d never see one again, let alone _this_ one. He half fell out of the bed before Geralt walked in.

“Jaskier, what—?” Geralt helped Jaskier sit back on the bed.

Jaskier was crying now, and gasping. He didn’t know when that had happened. Geralt sat by him on the bed and took a clean rag from the nearby nightstand and gently wiped Jaskier’s eyes. Jaskier flinched from the touch. He didn’t understand Geralt like this. Wasn’t used to it. It must be a dream, then.

Geralt put his hand down. “Jaskier, what’s wrong? What do you need?”

Jaskier opened and shut his mouth. He could _smell_ Geralt – that fresh leather scent mixed with horsehair, sword oil, fresh dirt, and wildflowers. Jaskier could feel the heavy weight of him on the bed. But it still… somehow didn’t feel _real_.

Jaskier swallowed and eventually got out, “… _Lute_.”

Geralt blinked at him, then got up and walked over to the chair, picking up the instrument, and walked back.

Jaskier’s hands shook as he took hold of it and he passed gentle hands over it. It wasn’t the only instrument he could play, and it wasn’t the second or third of its kind he’d ever owned. But when he’d been trapped in the dark, his voice failing him, it was sometimes all he could imagine.

“They sent it to—” Jaskier blinked and realized Geralt was talking to him and Jaskier had lost his focus. Jaskier reminded himself that Geralt was sitting beside him on the bed again. “We stayed there maybe eight years ago? I was passing through. They left it for me to find. I thought… Well at first I thought it was a fake, then… That you were dead.”

Jaskier considered that for a while, swallowed. “Why… would that bother you?”

Geralt blinked at him, then frowned. “Of course it bothered me! I thought you were _dead_ , Jaskier!”

“…Oh,” Jaskier replied, not knowing what else to say.

Geralt waited while Jaskier simply sat there, holding the lute.

Jaskier could tell that the lute was cleaned recently. He lightly strummed it and nearly wept when he fell into tuning it like he’d only stopped yesterday. The strings were new, and good quality. And the acoustics in the room were decent. He didn’t play anything, really. Just strummed some vague melodies.

“Do you want me to leave you alone?” Geralt asked, quietly, finally breaking the odd spell of no talking.

“I...” Jaskier replied. He thought it out. “I don’t know.” He didn’t want to be left alone, really. Honestly he was a bit afraid that if Geralt left the room that Jaskier would forget what he looked like.

But he remembered the last they’d spoken. Always he remembered that. The reason he’d assumed Geralt would never come for him, even if he somehow learned that Jaskier was kidnapped. He was out of Geralt’s hair, and he was only in danger of leading Geralt into a dangerous situation. Geralt wouldn’t come for him. It was stupid to hope.

And certainly some days he’d thought: Geralt is better than that. He’d come.

But most days, he wasn’t strong enough to be kind or hopeful. And when you’ve largely convinced yourself that someone reasonably hates your existence, it’s hard to still want to be around that person, even if they’re one of the few people you might want to be around. Imagined Geralt passed the time. Fully physical and actually _there_ Geralt…

It was a struggle and Jaskier didn’t realize he was shaking until Geralt lightly touched his shoulder. Jaskier still flinched at the touch, worried. He disgusted Geralt, didn’t he? Everything about him. His music, his way of talking, his clothing, his not-Yennefer-ness. He didn’t want to make Geralt angry and disgusted.

Geralt pulled away and Jaskier was afraid to meet his eyes. Afraid of what he’d see there. Perhaps annoyance. Anger.

“...I’ll be outside if you need anything. The door’s not locked, but you shouldn’t be up yet. We can... go for a walk in a bit, if you’d like. I’ll get you something to eat.”

Geralt stood slowly and walked out.

Jaskier stared at the imprint on the bed where he’d been sitting. He clutched the lute to himself.

He eventually set the lute down and managed to force himself up and over to the window, clinging to the wall for support. The landscape beyond was... breathtaking. They were high up, wherever they were. Admittedly, Jaskier preferred a good city like Oxenfurt for ease of access to everything he could ever want: good food, entertainment, clean, warm beds, any number of sleeping partners, good music, and just that feeling of being home…

But on his travels with Geralt he’d gained a growing appreciation for the outdoors. It wasn’t better. But it could be beautiful, too. And after not seeing a tree or a bush for far too long it was… it was almost too much. But he refused to move.

* * *

Sometime later Geralt pushed open the door and said, “You should... well, you should sit for your food.”

Jaskier turned and saw that Geralt had a tray, and the smell wafted invitingly towards Jaskier’s nose.

Jaskier pushed himself away from the wall and stumbled.

A strong arm caught him before he brained himself on the bed frame, although the arm still knocked the wind out of him a bit. Geralt slowly helped him up and over to the bed.

Geralt somehow hadn’t dropped the food. But Jaskier remembered he was nimble like that. For such a large man he could move with incredible grace. Geralt set the tray down on a side table and helped Jaskier get more settled. Then he handed the tray over.

“Do you want help?” Geralt offered as Jaskier looked it over. “You’ve had some trouble before...”

“I think I’ll manage,” Jaskier said, ever so quietly. Everything about this was too exhausting.

“...Right. I’ll be outside when you’re done.”

Jaskier started crying again while eating and tried to stop because it made eating more difficult. It already took forever for him to lift his shaking hands up to his mouth to feed himself. He was at least grateful he had bread to soak up the stew rather than a spoon, though it was a novelty to simply have cutlery.

He set the tray aside and tried to get out of bed, failed, and eventually weakly called, “Geralt?”

The door opened and Geralt quickly stepped in. Jaskier blinked at him. He knew Geralt’s hearing was superior to a human’s, but it was another thing entirely to know that he’d… seemingly sat outside the door. Or stood. Even Geralt wasn’t fast enough to get to the door _that_ fast, otherwise. Jaskier reached for the tray with its empty bowl and Geralt stepped forward and took it.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Geralt asked, smiling ever so slightly in that way Jaskier was familiar with and also made him ache.

Jaskier swallowed.

“...Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Yennefer, Ciri, Kaer Morhen, assorted witchers
> 
> Right now I'm gonna say this'll be two chapters. Maybe it'll go to 3, but not more than that.


	2. Proximity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags added for some smut. Cheers!

Kaer Morhen was one of the more rundown castles Jaskier had ever visited, but clearly someone had been working on it to make it more homely. There were rugs and a few tapestries. Lit fires for warmth. The floor seemed clean. All the sconces were full and lit.

Jaskier had to lean on Geralt’s arm for a bit as they walked and he felt uncomfortable every second, but Geralt didn’t push him away and didn’t say anything other than comments on how better to help Jaskier stand.

Vesemir was a barrel of a man who had a smile in his eyes and offered his thanks that Jaskier had woken up. Lambert ignored him, but Jaskier had the impression he was just a shit, so that didn’t bother him. The other Witchers were a bit too much for him to think on. Jaskier from before would be looking over their interesting clothing and scars and wondering what adventures they had to tell for him to write songs about.

Jaskier from _now_ felt exhausted even at the idea.

Ciri was a surprise in person as much as title. The young woman seemed full of energy and even just looking into her eyes made Jaskier feel drained in comparison. He’d seen her the few times he’d visited Calanthe’s court over the years, and she remembered him, and on top of that he was the source of the “big rescue” that Geralt and his companions had been working on for “ages” and “Please, I want to hear all about it!”

Yennefer helped keep her back and pulled her back to her studies.

Jaskier’s greeting with Yennefer was more cordial than he’d anticipated.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. She was dressed in her normal beautiful attire, as if she’d be attending court at any moment, and not teaching a slightly dirty child in a crumbling castle surrounded by a handful of warriors who clearly struggled to recall what being well-kept meant.

“A bit shaky but... all right, I think,” Jaskier replied. They’d never gotten on, much, and existed more in a tolerable distant acquaintance mixed with slight barbs and semi-knowing sharp smiles. She’d threatened his life once, and he’d insulted her time and again, and she’d thrown his insults right back. And they both cared about the same stupid man. And they were both burned for it.

She looked at him archly, but not seemingly in disapproval. In a way that he felt was her studying him. She nodded and turned back to walking Ciri through the latest textbook.

They finally returned to Jaskier’s room and Jaskier gladly fell into the bed. He barely noticed Geralt tucking the covers around him before he fell asleep.

* * *

When he next woke, Yen was setting down a bag by his bedside. He sat up and she said, “I need to check you over again.”

Jaskier tried to make it easier for her, stripping down when she asked, moving around as she instructed. She let him put his clothes back on and lay down as she got to work putting some mixture together.

“I wish I wasn’t so tired,” Jaskier said. At least he wasn’t dreaming most of the time. The nightmares were thankfully rare. “And I don’t know why I am. Not much even happened, really, near the end.”

Yen raised an eyebrow at him. “You were starved for months, trapped without sunlight for months, severely beaten, brutalized, and kept in a tiny room, alone. A lot happened to you, and your body is now healing from it. This will be taxing on your energy reserves.”

Jaskier considered that. “Months? How... how long was I trapped there?”

Yen blinked, then looked back at her mixing.

“Yennefer...? How long was I kept there?”

She sighed. “Nearly eight months. When Geralt came across your lute, they said it had been left there for him six months previous. Your captors apparently picked a random place he’d been to once and were rather lucky he came back through. The only reason your lute was still there and not sold or tossed was that the innkeeper was terrified of the Nilfegaardians.”

Jaskier stared at the wall in front of him. Eight _months_. Nearly a year of his life. Trapped in that cell, doing nothing. Losing his mind.

“Drink this,” Yennefer said, holding the cup out to him.

He blinked at it for a moment, then took it numbly. He swallowed it down. It tasted like... blueberries. He frowned and handed it back. “Aren’t these things supposed to be awful?”

“I’m a sorceress aren't I? I can make things taste as I want them to.” She took the cup and set it back on the table with her other things and started cleaning up. “You’re physically healing well. I suggest going on more walks outside to get your strength back, and to take in the sunshine and clean air.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier said. “For this.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, then said, “I’m glad you’re alive, you know. Glad we could get you out. For a while, we were worried we _wouldn’t_ find you alive. Geralt... refused that. We kept looking. Zoltan found you.”

Jaskier smiled. “Relentless dwarf. Saving my hide again.”

She smiled.

Jaskier looked away. “I didn’t… expect Geralt to go looking for me.”

Yen scoffed. “Much as the man is an emotionally stunted lummox, he cares for you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier could tell, sort of. In the gentleness with which Geralt had treated him.

“I’m sure,” he replied.

She smiled stiffly. “Yes. Has he apologized yet?”

He sighed and leaned back on the bed. “No. Can’t say I’m holding my breath. Unless all this is meant as an apology. Honestly I’ve moved on, really. I was doing fine before Nilfegaard jumped me.”

“Yes. Essi said she tried to speak with you three times and each time you were drunker. I’m sure that ‘moving on’ bit is working just fine.”

Jaskier scowled.

“Do that any harder and you’ll have a matching set to use against him.”

“You want me to forgive him?”

She snorted. “No. At least not until he truly apologizes. Then what you do at that point is up to you."

“Too fucking true,” Jaskier murmured, and fell asleep.

* * *

When Jaskier woke next, he saw Zoltan sitting in a chair next to the bed, reading a book. The dwarf looked hale as ever, with his bright clothes, slight smile, and neatly trimmed beard.

“Zoltan…” Jaskier murmured.

Zoltan looked up and grinned. “Ah, awake again? Good!” Zoltan set his book down on a small table and walked back over, grinning. He grasped Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier flinched ever so slightly, and Zoltan’s eyes widened before he pulled away.

“Sorry,” they both said at the same time.

“Ach,” Zoltan said. “Don’t apologize, Julian. Not you. Not now. I’m glad to talk to you. Been on patrols and gathering intel for a bit. Finally headed back when I heard you were awake.”

“Are… are they coming after me?”

“There’s always the danger of Nilfegaard coming after any of us, the relentless fucks. Ciri’s their primary target, Geralt for keeping her, Triss, Yennefer, and I for getting into too many scrapes with them, you by association I imagine…” He shrugged. “Best to be prepared. But we’re safe enough for now, anyway.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier said. “For… for finding me. For looking in the first place.”

“Nothing to thank me for,” Zoltan replied, smiling. “I can’t leave a friend to suffer, eh? A bard I knew once said that to me.”

“Getting a drink with you over a bad break-up is hardly mounting a rescue mission from a prison.”

“Aye, but I don’t recall you even being in town when I had my bad break-up. Long way to travel just for that. And I do recall you sticking around for about a month to cheer me up. And then writing me letters near constantly ever since.”

Jaskier shook his head, smiling.

“And there was that time you pretended to be my adopted brother to get me out of being sent to prison.”

“I don’t even know why that worked…”

“And the time you sang a song to win my horse back.”

“The man was drunk, anyway.”

“I _can_ go on.”

Jaskier shook his head again, grinning. “Still not breaking into a _Nilfgaardian prison_.”

“I’d do it again.”

Jaskier swallowed around a lump in his throat. “I gave up, you know. They tried to break me to get what they wanted, and honestly, they succeeded. The only good thing is that I didn’t know what they wanted.”

“Ah, Julian…”

“Those assholes grabbed me at _just_ the right time, you know? It wasn’t… It wasn’t just _Geralt_ , like Yennefer thinks, like Essi thinks because the night she found me I was too drunk and had gotten to that point of listing off my miseries... I was having a dry spell. With the music. And I’m always low when I’m in the middle of those. And this one was long, too. It was a nightmare. I was speaking to barely anyone. Said too many unkind things to friends who tried to help. And then I was stuck in a hole and assumed that was how I was going to _die_. …It’s a damn, mess, Zoltan. And I don’t know how to get myself out of it. I didn’t even do _that_. _You_ lot did. And I still feel trapped inside my head, like this will be some damn dream, except my dreams weren’t this damn _hopeful_.” He put a shaking hand over his eyes.

“You don’t come out of something like that and heal immediately, Julian, but we’ll work through this, together, I promise.” Zoltan put a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “It’s not a dream, I swear.”

Jaskier swallowed and rubbed the tears out of his eyes. He sniffled. “Yes, well. Keep saying it every now and then, to remind me.”

“I will.”

“I’m worried I’m going to start tumbling back into it. All I do is sleep and, seemingly, and I just… I need something to do.”

“How about we write a letter to Essi? Last I heard from her she said she’d as soon kill you herself if she saw you, but she was happy to hear you were alive.”

Jaskier snorted. “Well that’s… that’s definitely her.”

“She’d be here herself if she didn’t hate being cooped up in castles. She’d rather just run spy on Nilfgaard and see as many of them dead as she can, you know, to pass the time. But I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear from you.”

“…You’ll have to write it, I think, Zoltan. I imagine my hand will shake too much.”

“Probably a good idea. I’ll make it readable for a regular person, anyway. Not too flowery or lewd, as you like to.”

“Bless you.”

* * *

Yennefer took him for his next walk. And the next. And Zoltan after. Sometimes they just walked around the castle until Jaskier grew tired, but he was getting stronger every day. He ate more, stayed awake longer. He could move unaided most of the time.

He made good on his promise to roll in the grass, and Yennefer laughed and said nothing of any tears he might have shed. He breathed in the mountain air and watched hawks fly in the distance and watched as many sunrises and sunsets as he could stay out and awake for.

He frequently sat in on Ciri’s lessons with Yennefer, or the other Witchers, typically because Yennefer was there and wanted to keep an eye on him through his recovery, or Zoltan would find him more easily when he returned from patrol, or because Jaskier simply wanted to be around people, and it was too easy to be isolated in the castle. He’d been isolated with naught but the guards and his imagination for far too long.

And he was curious.

He watched Ciri learn swordplay, hand-to-hand, strategy, logistics, diplomacy, and even sometimes the odd thing about magic, which was even more fascinating. He knew so little about the thing itself, for all he’d seen Yennefer and even Geralt use it on occasion, along with a few other sorcerers.

Ciri was almost painfully polite to him, though he could tell she wanted to ask him things. Yennefer frequently gave her a _look_ when she seemed too anxious. Then she’d sigh and go back to whatever it was she was doing.

And Geralt was there, too. He kept back a bit, but he was there sometimes when Jaskier woke up, brought him meals, helped with Ciri’s lessons, or observed the lessons while others taught her.

Jaskier didn’t speak much with him. Mostly it was “thank you” for what he did, updates on his health, and sometimes asking where Geralt disappeared to when he disappeared.

Geralt wasn’t that talkative, at least when Jaskier was around. He explained he went on scouting trips, hunted, did his own exercises in private, oh I have something to get to, pardon me, Yennefer will be by shortly.

And then he was gone again.

But he _did_ speak more when he was speaking to someone who _wasn’t_ Jaskier. He spoke more easily with Yennefer, like when Jaskier had seen them truly _together_. He answered as many of Ciri’s questions as he could, in all the detail he could bring up, explaining lessons in a way even Jaskier found interesting, for all he had no desire to pick up a sword or learn alchemy.

But the minute Geralt seemed to recall Jaskier was in the room, he went quiet, and frequently excused himself.

Jaskier didn’t know how he felt about that. Was it a snub? Embarrassment? Over what? Wading through his own madness was a minefield, and he had no idea how to figure out what Geralt’s _actual_ upset was without asking the man, and Jaskier, well… he was hardly fool enough to try _that_ intelligent of a thing.

He tuned his lute every day once he had the energy, and played up in his room, mostly. Retraining his voice a bit. He wasn’t writing anything yet, although he’d bounced a few ideas around about his rescue. Nothing much about Jaskier’s piteous state when found. Very much about a wonderful sorceress with light at her fingers who’d portalled them to safety. A mastermind dwarf who’d planned it all.

…A Witcher who’d heroically carried him away.

Then he would stop and want to move to something else.

* * *

“Would you play something for us?” Ciri asked one day when Geralt and Yennefer were discussing something during one of her lessons.

Jaskier had his head buried in a book he’d pulled from the library. Kaer Morhen’s library was full of things he’d never found even in Oxenfurt, and he was fascinated, particularly in the histories. He found all the exploits deeply engrossing, a bit ridiculous, and something maybe something he could sing about if he added a few embellishments here and there. Nothing _soon_ , though.

That he’d been initially drawn to the library after waking up from a nightmare, and found it a pleasant escape to visit whenever he had more nightmares, sometimes even letting him drift off to something like a peaceful sleep after hours of browsing and reading about ancient monster hunts, was beside the point.

And if he had dreams instead of bizarre creatures he imagined weren’t _actually_ real, sometimes being fought off by a familiar-looking white-haired Witcher, well… It was better than what he was running to the library to be away from.

So it was with surprise that Jaskier looked up to see Ciri standing near his table and looking at him with bright eyes when she was supposed to be in the middle of one of her lessons. No one at the castle else had requested anything, although Zoltan smiled whenever Jaskier pulled out his lute when they sat together, and Vesemir had handed him a book of ancient songs one time Jaskier had run into him in the library.

“I… You want me to play something for you?” Jaskier asked.

“You _are_ a bard,” Ciri said, like he had to be _reminded_. “I remember you performing in court. I haven’t heard anyone perform like that in a while, and… I’d like to hear some music. If you’re up to it.”

Jaskier glanced over to Yennefer and Geralt, who were now watching him. Yennefer had a detached interest in her gaze. Geralt was frowning.

“…I’d be happy to.”

Ciri’s expression lit up.

* * *

It was after dinner that night, and he brought his lute with him, and Ciri didn’t prompt him, although he did spot her looking at him expectantly several times, before she caught Yennefer’s eye and turned back to her food or listening to whoever was talking.

Dinners were lively after a fashion in Kaer Morhen. Between all the Witchers in residence, usually two sorceresses, several dwarves, Ciri, a scattering of elves every now and then, and, of course, Jaskier, they kept the mood lively. People joked, a few performed, usually faux fights, comedy acts, juggling with strange objects, and one of the elves was a rather good flautist and another had a small harp, which they sometimes played together.

In a breath of silence when most of the meal was eaten, Jaskier cleaned his hands off, pulled out his lute, and walked over to Ciri to ask her what song she’d like.

She was sitting between Geralt and Yennefer, and grinned at him.

Jaskier made the mistake of looking up at Geralt and nearly dropped his instrument to see Geralt smiling ever so slightly, too.

Jaskier turned his gaze back to Ciri.

The night went well. Perhaps it wasn’t as vibrant as Jaskier was used to, but it was a _night_ and he helped make it what it was. He sang several songs, even danced around a bit, and his audience danced even more, and sang along when they could. He picked old, familiar things once Ciri ran out of ideas, and she seemed to enjoy all of them, which was the most important thing.

He went to sleep truly spent, but filled with memories of people grinning and encouraging him and banging their tables, and a bright hall filled with music.

Ciri seemed to take that as the dam breaking, and not only continued requesting songs after dinner, but she also started taking her breaks to sit nearby and ask him questions about his travels.

Not his imprisonment. His _travels_.

She asked for where he’d studied. What things he’d seen.

He talked about Oxenfurt a little. His studies. Sometimes Yennefer joined in to talk about what she’d learned on whatever talk it was, and they had a bit of verbal sparring that Jaskier found himself enjoying after a strange fashion.

Sometimes Zoltan would join him and they’d talk about all their ridiculous adventures together. When Jaskier flagged, Zoltan was there to bring up something even more ridiculous, and somehow they kept it relatively tame, or quickly moved on to something else when they couldn’t figure out how to keep it tame.

Ciri was a good listener (“When someone has something interesting to say,” she’d told Jaskier once), and always wanted more stories. They went on walks together, sometimes, just the two of them, and Jaskier managed to hear some of _her_ stories.

It was easiest when they went riding, when Yennefer set up her wards and patrols were set up nearby, to alert them of danger. Jaskier was distracted enough by remembering how to properly be in the saddle, and Ciri was excited to be outside and pointing out plants and animals she’d learned to recognize, and it was calmer, somehow, than just walking around Kaer Morhen.

She told her stories in brief spurts and then went quiet, looking at things in the distance that weren’t there.

“I wish that hadn’t happened to you,” Jaskier said once, when they’d stopped their horses in a small glade and the horses picked at some of the bushes while the humans walked around. “No one should have to go through that.”

“Thank you.” She kicked a pebble, sending it clattering away. “Geralt and Yennefer sometimes say it’s just part of what _forges_ me, but… sometimes I just want someone to say ‘that sucked a lot’. But prettier, I suppose, like how you said it. Well… not pretty, I suppose. But… you know what I mean.”

Jaskier smiled. “I think either sentiment can be a bit pointless sometimes. It happened, and I’m not telling you how to fix it, so… So what?” He shook his head. “As the adult I feel I should know, at least, but… I just don’t. And I’m sorry for that, too.”

“So who tells _you_ how to fix it?” She asked, smiling.

“When I find out, I’ll let you know.”

She laughed and then they were quiet for a while.

“I wish what happened to you hadn’t happened, either,” Ciri said. “No one should have to go through that.”

Jaskier swallowed. “Did they…? What did they tell you?”

“Not much. But they said you were tortured. And kept in a dungeon for months. And I saw you when you came in. You looked near-dead.”

Jaskier was quiet at that.

“It’s the remembering that’s worse, sometimes,” Ciri commented. “It just gets worse, especially with all the “I should have done this” or “I should have done that” thoughts. It’s awful.”

Jaskier smiled. “Yes. But you can’t blame yourself for it all, Ciri.”

“No. But it’s like Yennefer says: our minds don’t care about logic sometimes.”

“Too true.”

“You know what I like to do when I… when I remember what I went through?” she asked.

“What?” Jaskier replied.

“I find someone, and I talk to them about anything else. Or I go hit a practice dummy. Or I sing in the trees. Or I practice something. Anything. I drown it all with anything else.”

“Does it work?”

“Sometimes.”

Jaskier smiled. “Sounds like an excellent idea, then.”

* * *

Jaskier was sitting on a stone bench, watching the horizon out of a window in a corner of the library, idly strumming his lute when Geralt finally walked over to him. There was no one else around. Jaskier had been working in the library for the past few days, happily building up a new song repertoire based on the stories he’d been collecting from the various Witcher histories, Zoltan, Yennefer, and some of the other castle residents after he’d finally broken the ice and started talking to people. Yennefer had frequently shown up with trays of food to remind him to eat, and Zoltan had to drag him out to get some fresh air and nearly locked him in his room to sleep every night.

Neither of them understood what it was to be _inspired_ , obviously.

Jaskier secretly felt he deserved something for taking a break of his own volition, but he wasn’t ready to tell either of them.

“May I…?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier looked up at him.

Geralt was gesturing at the empty space on the bench.

Jaskier blinked. Then nodded. He looked back out the window.

Geralt sat.

Jaskier felt a sort of electric tension on his left side, but refused to be the one to speak first. Well, for starters, he had no idea what to say, so there was _that_ little problem.

“Ciri likes you a great deal,” Geralt said.

“…If you say so,” Jaskier replied. He liked her, too. She was funny and sweet, and getting wiser every day. He wondered if she’d be the new Lioness of Cintra, or something entirely of her own. Some cross between a wolf and a lion and an explosion?

He’d think about it.

“I was worried she’d feel isolated here,” Geralt continued. “There’s no one her age here. But she’s relaxed a lot since you arrived.”

“I’m hardly her age, either!” He was used to Geralt treating him as a child, but _honestly!_

“Yes, but at least you’re not more than 70 years her senior.”

Jaskier snorted.

“And you have a way of connecting with people. Anyone. Making them feel at ease. It’s something I’ve always respected. I’m glad it’s worked with Ciri. She’s happier, I think.”

Jaskier shrugged. He hoped he at least wasn’t making her _sadder_. She laughed a lot and smiled and was more open. All Jaskier did was _listen_ and talk about whatever she seemed interested in.

“Maybe you should just pay more attention to her.”

Geralt grimaced. “Maybe.”

It was unfair, Jaskier felt. Geralt doted on Ciri. Was always around when she needed him. Answered whatever questions she had. It…

“That was unfair of me,” Jaskier said. “You’re a good foster father to her. Probably better than anyone could ask for.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Don’t read into it.”

Geralt waved his hand. “I don't know if you've noticed I've been distant. Certainly Yen and Vessemir and Zoltan have reamed me out for it. I just... I'm not good at this. I’ve been… meaning to apologize. For what I said on the mountain.”

“It hardly matters,” Jaskier said.

“…What?”

“I moved past it. I had other things on my mind. Sure, I was annoyed. Angry. Hurt. Whatever. Throw some extra drama in. But I had my work, you know. I was writing for a bit. It was the dry spell that hit me hard, if you must know. Couldn’t write nary a word, no matter how hard I tried. I was too busy drowning in my concerns that I’d never be a true artist again when the Nilfgaardians grabbed me. _Not_ thinking of _your_ bullshit.” He looked at Geralt, and laughed at the man’s confused expression. “Oh, I’m _sorry_. Were you thinking I was simply pining away over _you_? Dear me, how very _selfish_ of you. Thinking the world revolves around _you_. Well, I can assure you, Geralt, it does _not_.”

In his mind’s eye, Yennefer raised a judgmental eyebrow at him. He ignored her.

“I didn’t…,” Geralt began, clearly confused. “I merely wished to apologize.”

“Yes, apologize then.” Jaskier waved his hand dismissively. “Go on. Get your crisis of idiocy over with.”

Geralt blinked. “What I said was cruel, and full of misplaced anger. If I could go back, I’d take the words back, I swear it. But I can’t. So I am sorry, Jaskier, for any hurt I caused you. We’ve had our differences, our problems, but you’ve been a good friend to me, and I’m grateful for that, but I repaid you poorly for it. And again, I’m sorry.”

“…Well.” Jaskier found it a bit hard to talk past the giant lump in his throat. “That’s done, then. Apology accepted or whatever. You can go now.”

Geralt blinked. “I… If you’re sure…?”

“Yup.”

“…Jaskier, you’re crying.”

“Yes, I am, now leave me be.”

Geralt grimaced. “Jaskier—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Jaskier cried out, getting up and walking away. “You know I imagined this so much grander? As I always do. Some sweeping apology or something, singing, applause, doves flying from somewhere probably and shitting on my arch-nemesis. Maybe I forgive you and I’m very grandiose about it and people applaud my generosity. Maybe I scream at you and you’re left a miserable lump of nothing on the floor beneath the bluster, and of course people applaud. Maybe we just pretend nothing happened and just go on with our lives as normal.”

“You… imagined this happening?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Jaskier demanded, turning on him, and Geralt had the _gall_ to not even shrink from Jaskier’s rage, because of course he didn’t, who would? The Nilfgaardians certainly hadn’t. “Have you ever been trapped in a tiny cell with nothing to do for months? Hmm? No? I thought as much! And it wasn’t just _you_ , you know, stop being selfish. I thought about other people! You were just on my mind a lot because they kept _asking_ about you. Always. Always _you_.” Jaskier shook his head and breathed in and out slowly, looking away. He swiped at his eyes.

“You know one of the things I actually hate about writer’s block?” he continued. “Well, besides _everything_ , but one of the things is that you soak in the misery. There’s nothing to distract you so you just… _remember_ every awful thing. Oh, I have to sit here and _wallow_ in this uselessness because where else would I go? Everyone else has their lives to be getting on with, and here’s me, all useless. Can’t go bother Essi, she’s actually working, and I was rude to her so now she’s gone anyway. Can’t go bother Zoltan, he’s not in the business, he has adventures and revolutions and what not to deal with. Can’t go bother Geralt, he said fuck off, I hate you.” Jaskier swallowed. “You see? Just wallowing. Utterly pathetic.” He shook his head.

Geralt was looking down at his clasped hands.

Jaskier had so many things to say. He’d rehearsed them countless times. Not so much since he’d arrived at Kaer Morhen, but he could still recall them. But seeing Geralt now so close, Jaskier was caught between being afraid he’d disappear again and wanting to prove himself so Geralt wouldn’t push him away again and dammit, just _shaking_ the man and saying it’s not enough, don’t you see it’s _not enough!_

But he couldn’t do that, so he just felt restless. He’d actually been writing a bit earlier and was happy with it, feeling like he was finally getting somewhere, finally moving forward after he’d been captured. After the mountain. After everything. He wasn’t thinking about the cell as much. He was making more jokes. He was singing every night at dinner and humming as he walked. He was happier, wasn’t he?

But he still felt… _restless_.

“Is there anything you need?” Geralt asked, quietly, staring at his hands.

Jaskier thought for a bit, then set his lute down on a nearby table. “Remember that time we got trapped in that temple and were surrounded by those ghouls?”

Geralt quirked his head. “Yes, there were too many of them, even for me.”

“Yes. So we holed up in the temple until the sun came up.”

“Yes.”

“Remember how we passed the time?”

Geralt smiled at the memory. “Yes, I do.”

“Want to give it another shot?”

Geralt looked up at Jaskier, still standing over him, frowning ever so slightly. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“I wouldn’t ask to fuck you if I didn’t want to, Geralt.”

Something heated entered Geralt’s gaze, and it made Jaskier blush a little. “I’m not opposed to the idea. I’m curious _why_ , though.”

“Why does there need to be a _why_? You know me, always sexing _somebody_ up. I haven’t gotten any for a while and you’re the only person here I’ve slept with before or have any interest in.”

“Interest?” There was a curious half smile in Geralt’s gaze.

Jaskier snorted. “Don’t read into it too much. Being at least vaguely in lust with someone barely means anything. I’ve written enough songs about it, I _know_.”

Geralt studied Jaskier for a while longer, and Jaskier sharpened in his glare. Finally, Geralt shrugged. “…Very well. But in my room. Only because Ciri has a habit of showing up in the most random places.”

* * *

When Geralt had locked the door to his room behind them both and Jaskier was looking around the room thoughtfully, Jaskier walked over to the rather spacious bed. The room was decent enough, had plenty of room for all of Geralt’s weapons and other gear, and seemed clean. But the bed grabbed his attention.

“Get many visitors?” Jaskier asked. “Not on a judgment standpoint. Just you know… a thought.”

“Perhaps not as many as I’d like,” Geralt replied as he walked over.

Jaskier turned to him and Geralt was, well… right there. Jaskier wondered why it always seemed like Geralt towered over him, when they were almost of a height. Probably his boots added some height, too.

Geralt reached out and carefully started undoing Jaskier’s coat. “Why didn’t we do this more often?”

“Probably because you’re built like a brick shithouse,” Jaskier replied, “and have an ass made of iron and I felt like I’d break myself doing it all the time.”

Geralt grinned _wolfishly_ , of course, the ass. “You curse a lot more than you used to. Even for you.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

Geralt grimaced and finally divested him of his coat. Jaskier sat down on the bed so he could pull his boots off while Geralt worked on his own coat.

Jaskier would have been impressed at how quickly Geralt got out of his clothes if he hadn’t seen the man do it before. Just cleaning up, jumping into someone else’s bed, or the few times they’d been together in the past… Geralt was just _quick_ about it. Jaskier was almost professionally jealous.

Geralt plopped onto the bed and rearranged the pillows a bit while Jaskier stood up and worked on his pants.

Once Geralt was happy with the pillows he reached into the nightstand and pulled out a bottle of oil, placed it by his hip, and lay back, watching Jaskier finish up. Jaskier’s clothes always had too many ties on them, somehow.

Jaskier pushed his trousers down and then reached up to yank his shirt off.

Geralt noticed the new scars on Jaskier’s back and felt something dark pass through him, but hid it.

Later. Not around Jaskier.

Jaskier turned and blinked at the sight of Geralt spread out for him, relaxing on the pillows. No wonder the bed was so large, Geralt somehow managed to cover almost all of it.

A few of the songs Jaskier had composed about Geralt spread out for an admiring gaze, which Jaskier shared with _precisely no one_ , came to mind, and Jaskier told that part of his brain to _fuck off_ please, thank you.

Geralt grinned, held up the vial, then tossed it down to him. “Did you want me another way?”

“This is fine,” Jaskier replied, a bit quietly.

Geralt said nothing.

Jaskier climbed onto the bed, kneeling by Geralt’s crotch. He opened the vial and coated his fingers. Geralt resettled himself a bit, spreading his legs ever so slightly more.

And Jaskier hesitated.

For a while he just stared. At Geralt’s well-sculpted ass, at his own glistening fingers.

He was shaking.

“Jaskier…?” Geralt’s voice was quiet, with a slight hint of worry. And damn him, hadn’t Jaskier told him to fuck off already? Jaskier thought so. Why was the man _worried_?

Geralt wasn’t worried. Geralt didn’t want to see him. No one did. And if they had, he’d set them straight long before he ever got stuck in that hole. That’s why no one was there to stop Jaskier being taken away. That’s why no one _found him_ for eight fucking months. That’s why he _deserved—_

Jaskier swallowed and yanked his hand back. “I _can’t_.” He pushed himself off the bed, wiping his fingers off on his leg and leaned down to grab his clothes.

“Jaskier, stop—”

“I can’t do this! I’m not, I… I thought I was ready, but I _can’t_ —!”

Suddenly Geralt was there, pulling him back and enveloping him in a hug.

Jaskier stiffened. Geralt was obscenely warm, as usual. And of course, he still smelled the same. Fresh leather, wildflowers… He was _right fucking there_ so why did Jaskier feel like he was falling apart?

“Is… do you want me to let you go?”

“I… No. No. I don’t…” Jaskier barely made it sound like something that wasn't a sob through his tears. He was afraid to need that stability, because what if he lost it again?

“All right.”

Geralt didn’t let him go.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Jaskier sagged into Geralt’s grip, leaning his head on Geralt’s shoulder. He wanted the reminder that Geralt was _there_ , that he was real, that Jaskier wasn’t going to vanish and be back in… back in…

Geralt didn’t say anything.

“I think I’m still trapped there,” Jaskier said. “In that fucking cell. Not… not that I think this is all some dream. But I think… I’m still there, and I can’t…” He pulled away and put his hands over his face, dammit, he hated crying all the damn time!

Geralt reached a hand out and lightly rubbed his back. “It’s fine if you don’t want to do this.”

“I want to, though.” And it was true. He did. “Fuck, I _want_ to. I’m so damn tense I’m likely to burst at this rate.” Angry as he was at Geralt, Jaskier hadn’t exactly ignored the tantalizing daydream when he’d had a bit of wood to deal with. And this would be better than just his hand, alone in his room.

Jaskier sighed, then frowned and looked at Geralt suspiciously. “Unless you _don’t_ want to? Is this some pity fuck?”

Geralt met the gaze and raised an eyebrow at him. “Jaskier, I don’t fuck people out of pity.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at him.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Well… I certainly wouldn’t fuck _you_ out of pity. I’d fuck you because I _want_ to fuck you. Because you’re attractive and have strong thighs and make the best noises when we fuck, and a plethora of other reasons, including the fact that the sex is always good. I just don’t want to hurt you anymore than I already have. Or be something you use to hurt yourself.”

Jaskier swallowed and wiped his eyes. “I don’t know that it’s a weapon, it’s… I just want to move _on_.”

“We don’t have to _fuck_ to move on.”

“We don’t. But I want to.”

Geralt smiled ever so slightly. “Then we don’t have to do it _this_ way. We can do it in a way that you’re comfortable with. What do you want? Do you still want to fuck me?”

Jaskier sighed. “I just want to not… _think_ , honestly.”

“Hmm… might be easier if I fuck you, then.”

“…I think that’s the better idea.”

“All right.” Geralt scooped him up, making Jaskier yelp and grab onto him.

“Geralt!” Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh as the man walked them back to the bed.

Geralt gently placed him on the bed and maneuvered the pillows some more, grabbing one to put under Jaskier’s hips. He grabbed the oil vial and coated his fingers, and scooted close.

Jaskier yanked the pillows under his head around until he was comfortable, then watched Geralt, who was staring at Jaskier’s chest.

“Something wrong?” Jaskier asked.

“Hmm? Oh, no. You ready?”

“Yeah. I think so, anyway.”

Geralt grinned and carefully feathered his fingers over Jaskier’s thighs, making the bard shiver. Geralt’s fingers eventually ended up gently jerking Jaskier off, and Jaskier mumbled, shutting his eyes.

He opened them when Geralt pushed through his cheeks and carefully rubbed his rim. Jaskier already felt overly twitchy, and his breath had sped up. His toes twitched. He resisted the urge to hit Geralt with one of his thighs.

Geralt slowed down his movement on Jaskier’s cock, rubbing his calloused fingers ever so slowly around the head, which just made it _even_ _wonderfully worse_ , and also made a suitable distraction when Geralt pushed a gentle finger into Jaskier’s hole.

Jaskier arched his neck a bit.

“Good?” Geralt asked.

“Maybe,” Jaskier eventually replied. When Geralt’s questing finger eventually hit his prostate, Jaskier continued, “Yes, fuck! Sure.” He didn’t _squeak_ when he said it, either.

Geralt laughed. “I always forget encouragement isn’t one of your strong suits.”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m plenty good at encouragement when someone is doing a g—"”

Geralt pulled his finger out to replace it with two, making Jaskier grunt.

“What was that?”

“F-fuck off…”

“But this is fun.” Geralt scissored his fingers and Jaskier was definitely shaking, now, with Geralt’s frustrating multitasking. “And you’re a lovely shade of red now.”

“Glad _you’re_ having so much fun,” Jaskier muttered.

“And why shouldn’t I be? This pretty little thing practically begged me to fuck him.”

Jaskier snorted. “I didn’t _beg_. I was bored.”

“Ah, but I’m the only one you’re _interested_ in.”

“I was bored and not interested in leaving to find someone be—”

When Geralt hit his prostate again, Jaskier yelped, and grasped hard at the blankets.

“Didn’t catch that,” Geralt said.

Jaskier was definitely breathing hard now, and hating Geralt again. “I retract my earlier statement. I don’t forgive you.”

“You didn’t actually forgive me, though.”

“Oh fuck off.”

Geralt chuckled and pulled his fingers out, covered them in more oil, and thrust in three at once this time, making Jaskier make a strangled shout. Geralt put his spare hand back on Jaskier’s cock and started slowly jerking him off again, although Jaskier was already pretty damn hard.

“I’m not… I’m not that _easy_ ,” Jaskier said, between panted breaths, his eyes shut.

“I never thought you were,” Geralt said.

“Your apology made it seem like you did.

Geralt paused as he considered that, and let go of Jaskier’s cock.

“What the fuck, Geralt?” Jaskier opened his eyes.

“Just wait, Jaskier. You’re _not easy_ , remember?” Geralt smiled playfully at him.

Jaskier glared back.

Geralt withdrew his fingers and covered his cock in oil. “So, you’re still angry at me.”

“Right now? Yes. Yes I am. Very much so.”

“I figured as much.” Geralt slightly rearranged Jaskier’s legs and pulled them up so Geralt had a better angle.

Jaskier lay his head back down, glaring at the ceiling, ignoring how his legs were shaking. When Geralt carefully pushed his cock in, Jaskier grunted and tightened his grip on the blankets. It felt like the man was moving way too—

“You’re so fucking slow with this!” Jaskier snarled.

“Oh? You don’t like me taking my time?”

“No, you fucking coward, I don’t!”

Geralt blinked at him, shrugged, and pushed the rest of the way in, making Jaskier yelp. “You could have asked.”

“Yes, Geralt, thank you for your supreme wisdom,” Jaskier muttered, his voice a bit high, arching his neck a bit.

Geralt grinned and adjusted his grip on Jaskier’s thighs before starting to thrust. Every hit on Jaskier’s prostate made him grunt and arch and his ankles twitch. It felt good, but it wasn’t—

“G-Geralt, please…” He would have hated how pathetic he’d sounded if he had room in his mind to _care_ , he was just so damn _close_.

Geralt hoisted Jaskier up a bit more and then returned his free hand to Jaskier’s cock, pumping hard. “Come for me, Jaskier.”

At that point, Jaskier was so close he barely needed the command and cried out as he came. He sagged back as Geralt released him and started back on his thrusting, occasionally eliciting a few grunts and murmurs. When Geralt finally came he pressed as deep as he could go and bent over Jaskier’s chest, breathing hard.

Geralt finally pulled out and sagged down on the bed next to Jaskier, breathing deeply and watching the bard, who still had his eyes closed and a blissed out expression on his face.

“So I’m a coward?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier sniffed. “Yes.”

“I think that’s fair.”

“Thank you for the permission to make the statement.”

“Yen’s said as much herself, for things between us and how I ‘took my sweet time’, as she said, getting around to apologizing. I wondered why you hadn’t called me out on it.”

“I’ve been avoiding thinking of you, when I can, so…”

“It's understandable if you're still angry at me.”

“I fucking know that, you know. But I’m not, I’ve moved on. You apologized. You rescued me. We’re square."

“You say that a lot.”

Jaskier opened his eyes and glared at the ceiling.

“… _Did_ I rescue you, Jaskier?”

Jaskier turned his head to frown at Geralt. The Witcher was gazing back at him thoughtfully. “What?”

“I mean… obviously we got you out of there, but… I didn’t protect you. From all you went through. As you said, you still feel like… part of you is trapped in there, still.”

“That’s hardly your fault.”

“It’s because of me they captured you.”

Jaskier turned away. “Yes, well.”

“As you said, they never stopped asking about me.”

“Yes, I _know_ , all right?”

“So you don’t have to forgive me. I don’t know how to earn your forgiveness, if I ever could.”

Jaskier laughed. “I don’t think anyone _could_ for what happened in that cell, if you’re really taking the damn blame for that, too.”

“Or for what I said on the mountain.”

Jaskier huffed and turned away, not caring that he was getting more mess on Geralt’s sheets. They were Geralt’s, and thus, his problem. “The world doesn’t revolve around _you_ , your guilty conscience be damned.”

“It doesn’t. But let me try anyway?” Geralt reached a hand out to gently rub Jaskier’s right shoulder.

“…I’ll put it up for consideration.”

“That’s all I can ask for,” Geralt said.

Jaskier hmphed and rolled back over so he could curl back in Geralt’s chest, stupid muscle of a man that he was.

Geralt wrapped his arms around the bard, and set his chin over Jaskier’s forehead.

Jaskier shut his eyes. “Thank you. For this.”

“Glad of it. It was rather nice.”

“Next time I’m fucking _you_ , though.”

“Good.”


End file.
